There They Are, Standing in the Garden
by wildpeace
Summary: Their first kiss, and all that follows. Separation is heart breaking, but sometimes reuniting is just as hard. M/D.


Their first kiss is in the garden.

In truth, many kisses had taken place there over the years: winning celebrations on race-flushed cheeks, healing kisses to rose thorn scratches, even mistletoe kisses dropped like butterflies at the corner of mouths. But those had been fragments of their childhoods, innocent fleeting affections of no consequence.

When he looks at her, one hand cupping her cheek, the other on her shoulder, they both know this will have consequence.

Xxx

It's just turned January, and snow has settled across the moors and in little pockets and patches across the manor's gardens. When she steps outside, the land is unspoiled and glistening, and her breath comes like tiny spurts of smoke from a dragon. Each step she takes crackles underfoot, and she tugs her hat further down over her ears to cut out the biting wind. She means to check on the family of foxes that have made their home in the decaying log at the back of her garden, but when she steps down the large, stone stairs, she can see that she has been beaten to the task.

Dickon kneels silently in the snow, as still as marble, watching the two fox cubs weaving and tumbling across frosted grass, yipping and playing. The foxes notice her footsteps just a heartbeat before Dickon, and dash into the log as he turns to greet her. His cheeks are rosy with the cold, and as he holds out a hand to help her down the rest of the icy stairs, she can see his gloves are darned and patched, a new hole unravelling over his thumb.

They walk around the garden, checking on the animals that have made their winter homes there, testing the thickness of the ice on the pond by tossing small pebbles and watching them tinkle against the frozen water. They clear dead leaves, piling them in corners for the hedgehogs to burrow in, and then when their jobs are finished, Mary grabs his hand, skipping towards the swing. "Push me, Dickon!" she laughs, her eyes intreating, sparkling with daring, and he can't stop himself from following behind.

"The wind'll freeze thy nose right off thee face," he teases, stepping behind her and wrapping his hands around the ropes. They creak with the cold and he tugs slightly before he begins to push, checking their strength.

The swing arcs slowly, but the wind is a bracing thrill against her cheeks. "Would I still be pretty with no nose?" she teases him, turning her head to look back at him over her shoulder. Her skin is porcelain tipped with pink, and a dark golden curl escapes from beneath her hat.

Grasping the ropes, he pulls the swing to a stop, a look of consideration on his face. Then he reaches out, batting her lightly, tweaking the end of her nose. "I suppose you would."

His answer surprises her, she'd expected him to tease, but instead he opens his hand, moving down to her cheek instead. His touch is hot, even through the worn wool of his gloves. Mary's struck almost paralysed, frozen like the weather, her heart hammering in her chest as he licks his lips, and straightens his shoulders. He doesn't look away from her eyes. "I'd say thee look right pretty any time, Mary."

Feeling comes back to Mary in a rush. Her face floods with heat and her fingers and toes tingle, and her heart flutters in her chest like a moth against a flame. She's on her feet without even remembering standing up, and for a moment his hand leaves her face, like he isn't sure whether she's about to cry or reject him in no uncertain terms. Instead, her hands fist in the front of his coat, and he's cupping her face again, and then they're kissing.

In one way it's the strangest thing she's ever done, and in another, it feels like the most normal thing in the world to have Dickon's lips pressed against her own. One of his hands rests on her back, not pressing her into him, but just resting, warm and consistent, nestled against the ruby red of her coat.

She's not too sure who pulls back first, but is aware of their mutual hard breathing, and the laugh that burbles from her lips. Fear disappears from his face then, and he laughs with her, stopping only to press another kiss against her lips, and another.

"We shouldn't," he tells her, both that day, and frequently in the days and months that follow, when the rush of stolen secret kisses becomes an addiction neither one of them can shake. His words whisper against her skin and her body trembles in a way she'd never known about before. "Mary, I'm just a gardener."

She runs a hand through his hair, feeling the softness against her palm, her fingers dancing down the back of his neck. Her lips press against his, and the spring blossoms wave around them. "And all I have is a garden," she murmurs against his mouth. "And all I want is you."

xxx

He's been conscripted. She is sixteen and he is eighteen and the army seem to have reaped half the men of Thwaite. He finds her through the secret door, down the steps crowded with roses and honeysuckle, next to the pond where they first made something grow together. She's knelt in the grass and her arms are dirt-streaked to the elbow. There is a smear of soil on her cheek, and wisps of her hair curls around her forehead and ears and she is beautiful. She meets him with a smile that is golden sunshine and fresh summer rain, and he can't speak. When he tries, his voice gets lost somewhere between his stomach and his lips, and all he can think of is the baker's boy who's come home with no legs, and how he told his mother he'd be brave. But his heart is somewhere in his throat and he can see the moment Mary realises something is terribly terribly wrong.

She spots the brown envelope in his hand, and he watches as the realisation hits her. While no envelope will likely ever appear for Colin (his history of ill-heath despite his current robustness, and the desperation of her uncle to not lose his son, when he'd really had him for so few years), Mary knows what this means.

He finds her in his arms before he's aware of her even moving, and her fingers pull and grasp at him, fisted in his shirt. "They can't, they can't, they _can't," _she whispers against his skin, a pointless litany as he wraps his arms around her, their knees pressed into the dirt and their bodies pressed together. Her mouth is open and hot and stuck somewhere between begging and sobbing. "Oh Dickon," she whispers, her face buried in his neck, pressing kisses to his frozen skin, the only thing giving him heat despite the day.

"I love you." He's never said it before, and he wonders if it should feel like something revealing or momentous. Instead it's as natural as the robin's bird song, or the wind in the trees. It falls from his lips without thinking, because he doesn't think it, he _feels _it with every freckle and hair and nerve in his body.

She smiles through her tears and the look is heart-breaking. "We could run away together," she manages to choke out, slipping her hand inside the collar of his shirt, pressing it against his skin as though desperate to get as close to him as possible. "We'll go to America, to Canada. Anywhere. We'll live on the moors with the animals. Dickon, _please." _

"It's my duty, Mary," he says, and his voice is thin and desperate because all he wants to do is disappear and have this not be real. But he's watched others go - friends and boys he's grown up with - and he knows he can't do anything less. "I need you. I need you to look after my mother and the little 'uns while I'm gone. And I'll come home." At these words, he holds her shoulders gently, so she looks at him square in the face. "I'll come home," he whispers again, and he knows it's as much for himself as for her. "I'll come home and I'll marry thee and not the Kaiser nor Colin nor the King of England himself is going to stop me."

xxx

It's raining the day he leaves. The morning had come grey and misty and as downcast as everyone in the village. His train leaves at one that afternoon, but on waking, he wishes it would be sooner, because each minute of waiting stabs him like red-hot needles.

His mother is strong and dry-eyed, and talks about how handsome he is in his uniform, so as not to scare the smallest of his brothers and sisters, who look at him like he's one of their tin soldiers come to life. Martha breaks into tears at the sight of him and is shooed out of the room, followed by a bleak Elizabeth-Ellen, who isn't young enough to be fooled by his mother's pasted smile.

Each mouthful of breakfast tastes like bitter dust, but his mother's used her best dishes, so he forces each spoonful down. When they're finished she hands him his bag of belongings, and brushes imaginary dirt from his cheek. He hugs her, fiercely, and prays that he doesn't cry because this might be the last time he ever sees his mother and he won't let her think of him afraid.

He goes by the manor to ask Mrs Medlock if she would check in on his family in his absence, but when he steps in the kitchen door he is met by a hand on his arm and pulled hastily into one of the dimly lit and barely used corridors. When he turns, Mary's eyes look up at him, round and full of something he doesn't recognise. He's about to say her name when she presses a finger to her lips, and pulls him behind a tapestry.

They exit into a room that is clearly a store room for old furniture. Everything is slightly dusty and replete with old grandeur, and two sputtering oil lamps make the room glow. She closes the door behind them with a gentle shove as it settles into its aged frame, before sitting on an old chaise, the golden silky fabric smooth under her hand. As Dickon watches her fingers trace the patterns, he can see her hands shaking.

Sitting down next to her, he rests a fleeting touch on her knee. "Mary?" he murmurs, pressing his lips to her temple. He knows she understands the question he's not asking, because she turns and presses their lips together, hard. Her hands go to his hat and pull it off, and to his overcoat, pushing it off his shoulders hard, as though she hates everything it is and everything it represents. All the while, she's kissing him until they're both breathless. Her hands go to his shirt buttons then, and he stops her with a touch and a quirk of his eyebrow.

She avoids his glance, her hands batting his away until his chest is bare. Then she stands, unbuttoning her dress, letting it fall to the floor, leaving only her chemise and stockings beneath. Sitting back down on next to him, she pushes his shirt off of his shoulders, before placing her hands on his chest. "Please don't tell me no," she whispers almost imperceptibly, and he's torn. He knows he should be pushing her away, reminding her who they are and where they are, but he's eighteen and he's going to a war he might never come home from. And she's in his arms and she's warm and as sweet as roses and her lips are against his, and the silk of her slip glides so easily between his fingers.

He's never done this before, but he's heard all sorts of tales from the boys in the stable yard and various hands over the years. The lad at the smithy has one lazy eye, but always has a story about the lasses from Thwaite. And it's _Mary. _ There's no secrets between them, no shyness. He adores every part of her.

He cups her breasts and her body shudders, and her hair splays behind her like a veil. He knows this should've been their wedding night, really, at least that's what his mother and the Bible would say, but he can't feel ashamed. She's an adventurer, taking them both into lands unknown, her body bold and brilliant. She clutches his shoulders and kisses his lips, and squares her hips against his. He thanks god that this is both their first time, because his mother's birthed twelve children, and he can't imagine what would happen if he left Mary behind with no husband and a babe in her belly. Colin would surely come find him and kill him quicker than the war could.

He moves against her, then inside her, and the feeling is something he can't describe. She's tense beneath him, and he feels suddenly far too clumsy and careless to be doing this to her. He tries to move away but she wraps her leg around his, holding him in place, and brings her other hand to the back of his neck. He kisses her soundly, breathlessly, air catching in his chest and feeling tumbling through his body. Trying to straighten up, he pulls their lips apart, and looks down at her. There is so much of her body that he wishes he had time to explore; he wishes he could kiss every inch of skin just to see what she would do.

Her fingers grasp at his hip, flexing against his skin, and he doesn't know if she means it to, but it makes him rock against her. Her mouth makes a little 'o' of surprise and her brow furrows, as though she's figuring out a puzzle, and he wants to help her get to the answer, but then his stomach is clenching and his elbows are buckling and he can hear himself groan as he spills himself inside her.

His head is resting against her breast, her fingers carding through his hair when he finally realises she is saying his name. "Dickon," she says gently, "you have to go."

They dress in silence. He helps her with her buttons and she straightens his cap, and he keeps thinking about how he was just inside of her and now his boots are laced and they're both walking through the halls of Misslethwaite.

Xxx

Lord Craven insists on his driver taking Dickon to the station, and both Colin and Mary go with him. His shined boots and brown overcoat match others waiting, with families and young 'uns, or mothers and fathers seeing them off. Colin holds out his hand, shaking it firmly, before pulling Dickon in for a hug. "Be safe," he manages, his voice gruff and his gaze avoiding Dickon's. At sixteen, he wants to be stoic and manly, but his eyes are still shiny with tears. "Do try and write."

Colin steps away as they hear the whistle of the train. Mary's eyes widen, and she almost throws herself into his arms. She doesn't kiss him, but buries her face in his neck. In turn, he nuzzles into her hair. "I'll come home to thee," he murmurs, because he can't say he loves her, not here, not with her cousin three feet away.

"You have to," she mumbles back. "Or today would make a fool of me."

His heart lurches as the train stills at the station. He can feel Mary gasp against his skin, hands desperately flexing in his coat. It almost kills him, but he's the one who pulls away first, stooping down to pick up his kitbag.

Touching the edge of his cap, Dickon quirks a small smile. "Look after the garden," is all he says before stepping onto the train, the door slamming behind him. The whistle blows again, and steam billows across the platform.

Colin holds Mary's hand tightly. Mary does not cry.

xxx

In the year that follow, many men try and court her. When she is forced to London or Edinburgh or York with Colin as her escort, she is trussed to the nines and trotted out like a doll to smile and fawn and pretend she is not interested when the boys get together to speak. Truthfully, she cares nothing for their talk of rowing or cricket or unfair professors, but when they talk of politics and war, she wants nothing more than to crawl into the circle and beg for more information. But she knows this would be unseemly, so keeps to herself, and tries to pretend that her heart isn't breaking every time they use words like 'death toll' and 'casualty reports'.

She is seventeen, and feels far too young when other men try and take her hand, and speak to her of the futures they can offer. Some are grand and some are handsome, but none spark the feelings inside of her that she knows Dickon can. Instead, she secretly wonders why they are here, dancing and smoking and drinking and fussing over her, when there are so many others so far from home.

She is feeling contrary enough at a ball one evening in the country, that she asks that very question of a lascivious Earl who won't stop trying to touch her knee through her skirt. He laughs, evades, and disappears for more champagne, thankfully freeing her leg from further molestation. Mary exits to the balcony quickly, enjoying the air on her skin even if it's Kent instead of Yorkshire. Part of her feels like crying, or stamping her feet, but she knows that won't help, truly. She is just giving herself a sharp, silent talking to when the doors slide open, and a man exits onto the balcony.

Seeing her there, he curses under his breath, something Mary finds both inappropriate and likeable. "Please excuse me Miss, I didn't mean to interrupt you."

Sitting down on one of the lavish padded seats that the hosts have set out, Mary shakes her head. "No need to apologise, I was just taking a moment from the crowd."

The man looks hesitant for a moment, unsure of whether he should leave her or not, but then nods and takes a step forward. He pulls a cigarette case out of his pocket. "Do you mind?" he asks, and when she shakes her head he pulls one out and lights it with a small silver lighter. Inhaling deeply, he blows smoke out into the open air, and then waves it away with his hand, as though to avoid the cloud drifting her way. "Terrible habit," he acknowledges with a self-conscious half shrug. "Picked it up on the line, now can't quit the bastards."

His accent is southern and monied, but she likes his cursing and the way he's already pulled his tie loose. It's a refreshing change from all the pomp and self-importance indoors. After a beat, as though realising his manners, he wipes his palm on his neatly pressed trousers before holding it out to her. "Damn it all, my father would flay me. Thomas de Havilland," he introduces, stubbing his cigarette into ash and flicking it over the balcony wall. "And you're the Craven girl."

"Lennox," she corrects, but with a nod of her head as she takes his hand. It's long-fingered and cool and smooth to the touch. "Mary Lennox. Colin Craven is my cousin."

"I thought brother," he explains, and then studies her carefully. "You are much alike."

She laughs then, and watches as he takes a drink from the champagne flute he had set down before lighting his cigarette. "In looks only, let me assure you. Though he would argue he is _much _prettier."

Thomas laughs then, and it's a laugh that is both dirty and companionable, and with a spark of knowing in his eyes. Mary feels a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, especially when he flops down on the other chair and crosses his legs at the knee. With a grin he cocks his head, seemingly considering her words, "Perhaps true." When he turns to face her, his hair flops over his forehead and he pushes it back with a flick of his wrist. "Well Miss Mary Lennox," he asks. "What brings you outside alone when the party of the year ambles on without us? Not smoking, surely?" His voice holds a tease, but it is easy and undemanding.

She shakes her head, and all of a sudden can feel her stomach clench. She stares down at the cornflower blue of her dress skirt, and it is so much the colour of Dickon's eyes she thinks she must stop breathing, just for a moment. Then, licking her lips, she explains, "There was so much talk of war, but no one will tell me a thing. When I try and ask anything they act as though it isn't a woman's concern. It was come outside or cause a scene." Wringing her hands, she smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry, I'm terribly contrary at the best of times."

He's watching her carefully, and pulls another cigarette out of his jacket. As he lights it, he stares across the darkness, and for a moment they are simply surrounded by the clinking and chattering of the party inside, and the light breeze over the manicured lawn. He takes in a deep breath, blowing the smoke into rings that mesmerise.

"It's not contrary to want to know," he assures her after a moment. "And I'd wondered why none of these _charming - " _(it's teasing, because they aren't and both seem to know it) " - men had claimed your hand. You're very beautiful."

It should make her blush, but the way he says it, it is fact, not compliment. "Thank you," she replies anyways, because it seems like the thing to do. "You're very handsome yourself."

He waves off the compliment, or the statement, partly because he's heard it so many times it barely registers, but mainly to return to his point. "Your beau is overseas?"

She doesn't know Thomas de Havilland, but there is such understanding in his voice that she can feel tears pricking at the back of her eyes and throat. She clutches her hands into fists, making her nails bite into her palms. "Not my beau," she corrects, furiously aware of the wobble in her voice. "But a scandal in the making and the man I love with all my heart." His dark eyes are full of sympathy, and when he reaches out and places his hand atop hers, there is no threat, no attempt at conquest. She finds she can stand to look him in the face. "He's in France and I _miss _him."

Her voice does break then, and Thomas pulls his hand away just long enough to curse and pat his pockets down. He presses a neat cotton square into her palm, and as she fingers the monogrammed corner of the handkerchief he assures, "It's clean, I promise."

She bites a laugh as she dabs at her cheeks, willing the tears back behind her lashes, "I'm sorry," she says after a long silence. "Here you are a stranger, and here I am, being terribly unladylike."

"Bugger ladylike," he replies, making her laugh again. "When I was in France I lost my dearest friend, Billy. Watched a shell tear him apart as though the universe had put me there just to make me suffer. Then I came home and suddenly I'm expected to come to parties and be charming and social and - " he stops there, shrugging one shoulder. "I'm just glad there was room on this balcony for two."

She smiles then, a true smile, and is unaware of how it lights up her face, making her eyes sparkle. In the dim light, they seem as rich as the smoothest chocolate. "As am I," she tells him. "Truly, thank you Mr de Havilland."

"Thomas," he corrects. "Please. In truth it's Second Lieutenant de Havilland, but what a bloody mouthful."

"Mary," she offers in kind. With the honey wave of her hair piled intricately on her head, and the way the sky-blue silk of her dress skims her body, Thomas can see why the men inside have been passing her name around like a party favour. Still, her eyes are clouded with longing, and something about her screams such ferocious innocence that he can't bear to send her back into the vipers' nest of men looking for their next conquest or a pretty broodmare to marry and forget.

Taking another swig of his drink, finishing the glass, he stands and offers his hand. "May I ask for a dance?" he requests, and then very gently – at her look of uncertainty – adds, "I promise I should never be a danger to you, nor ask of you anything ungentlemanly." At these words, she looks at him curiously, thankfully, before nodding, and reaching out to place her hand in his.

They enter the ballroom again, together, and as they begin to dance Mary can already see people whispering behind their hands. How she detests society! She knows Thomas sees the same thing, because he taps the side of his nose with a finger, and then laughs, not the same laugh she had heard outside, but something larger, bright and affected. She knows this is his way of telling her to keep her head held high, so she does just that. She pushes the thought of Dickon deep down as far as it can go, kept safe and true and secret beneath her ribs, and instead lets her feet move and her mouth laugh, and champagne splash cool against her lips.

xxx

Colin finds her eventually, looking unfathomably tall and grown up in his tailored suit, hair slicked back and his skin sweet with cologne. She's seen him around the room, different girls on his arm as he'd danced and talked, but when he finally comes to her side as she stands alone, and tugs her to privacy of one of the large swathes of curtain, his face is a muddle of pride and confusion and a red blush of brandy.

"Do you know who you've been dancing with?" he asks in a rush, and his voice would be a whisper if it weren't for the crowds, the music and the clinking of glasses. "That's Thomas de Havilland!"

She accepts another glass of champagne as a waiter passes, taking a sip to wet her parched lips. She's already tired of the conversation. "Yes, we rather introduced ourselves. He's a very pleasant gentleman."

"His family own practically half of Kent!" Colin whispers, flushed and Mary is sure, exaggerating. "Half the girls here have been dying to gain his favour since he came back to town. They're all staring daggers at you!" His voice is a peel of laughter, and he sounds almost like the little boy she knew once. Glancing over her shoulder, Mary can indeed see a number of young woman glaring petulantly in her direction. Colin's voice takes a turn then, one she doesn't recognise, and she looks back to study his face as he announces, "Henry Talbot says the two of you were out on the balcony together for some time."

There's a tone in his words, almost a question, almost an accusation, and she feels her cheeks start to flare, halfway between irritation and shame. "We were," she replies curtly. "Talking. And I hope you nor any of your chums are implying anything more."

Colin holds his hands up then, in supplication. "I'm sorry," he apologises quickly, knowing how her temper can be just as hot as his, given the right circumstance. "I just worry for you Mary. I don't think you know how men speak of you. There are a lot of men here who would jump at the chance to court you, if Father would allow it."

She does feel shame then, and something like disgust, and it makes her angry. "We've agreed I will court when I'm eighteen and not a moment before," she says with a bite in her words. She knows most in society are surprised that her uncle is waiting so long to marry her off, but they don't know how much Mary had begged for the time. Only her uncle's dear love for her and desire not to see her cry had given her sway.

At her expression, Colin knows it would be pointless to press further. He has always suspected the truth of Mary's unwillingness to engage eligible men, but he won't force her to discuss it. Instead, he says simply, "Shall we find our driver? I dare say if we leave now we'll have time for a nightcap at the hotel." He holds out his arm for her, and watches as her body relaxes, ire seeping from her fingertips and her jaw unclenching.

"Let's," she agrees. "I'll say goodbye to the Wainwrights, thank them for inviting us."

Really it's an excuse to separate from him again. Instead of finding their hosts, she collects her wrap, and has just stepped out of the main hall when she hears her name being called. Looking behind her, she sees Thomas exiting, a cigarette already between his lips.

"Leaving already?" he jokes. "I'm jealous."

Tugging her wrap around her shoulders, she smiles. "You're welcome to ride with us. We're heading back into London tonight."

"If but I could," he says with a deep sigh and a quirked smile on his lips. "Unfortunately, I'm in it for the whole weekend." He seems to hesitate for a moment, and then adds almost delicately, "About your friend… and I say this because I like you Mary. You've been the best company I've had for months, so I wanted to…I wanted to tell you the things they won't." He pauses then, reaching out and taking her hand in both of his. She can feel his touch shake, and it surprises her. "The war is the worst nightmare you can imagine. Anyone who says it's not hasn't seen it, not really. The best thing I can say is, pray for him to come home, but be prepared for him to be changed."

They hold each other's gaze for a long beat, simply staring, until Colin's voice breaks them apart.

"Mary?" He sounds unsure, as though unable to tell whether she needs help in the situation, or whether he is wrong-footing her by announcing his presence at all. When she looks over at him, her eyes are bright.

Thomas de Havilland says nothing more. He lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her fingers. "It's been a pleasure," he says, his tone once again affected by manners and expectation. "Please do call on me when you are next in London. It would be wonderful to see you."

She nods, and Colin frowns, and Thomas smiles.

In the carriage, she falls asleep against Colin's shoulder before they even leave the grounds.


End file.
